A Pursuit
by Argentine Rose
Summary: AU. Valjean is given a helping hand by Vidocq rather than the Bishop of Digne and in 1817 finds himself a Surete agent in Paris. However, his destiny is still linked to that of a certain Javert, whose life has also taken a rather different turn.


_There is no better way to know us  
>Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.<br>Now neither´s able to sleep . . ._  
><em>Till the other´s body and the whole wood is its own.<br>Then it might sob contentment toward the moon._  
><em>Ted Hughes, A Modest Proposal<em>

"He came to believe that he was outside the pale of society, and he despaired of ever entering it. However, he observed that society unpityingly excludes two classes of men - those who attack it and those who guard it. He had no choice except between those two classes"

Victor Hugo, _Les Miserables (Volume One, Book Five, Chapter Five – Vague Flickers on the Horizon)_

* * *

><p>"Is this not the part where you are meant to say 'In the name of The Law and The King, I arrest you on suspicion of . . . '?"<p>

He sighed, "You know it is damn fine!"

His prey raised an eyebrow and smiled expectantly, "Are you then not intending to say it?"

He sighed again, "I can't see why – you know how it goes, I know how it goes. Everyone in this room knows how it goes. What would be the point?"

"Tiens, Monsieur! Come now! It's just that I would feel so much more comfortable if everything were done by the book! As things stand I do not even know what I am accused of."

"I didn't come here to play funny games with the likes of you!" he snapped. Of all the people Le Cric had to deal with, there was no-one with a greater capacity to irritate him than the tall fellow who was now looking down at him with a broad smile which was surely too innocent and benign for a criminal so long wanted and so hard sought - one who had been finally cornered, cracking jokes and smoking cheap and noxious cigarillos, in the back of a seedy pot house in the Faubourg Saint Marcel.

The man ran his hand through his thick, greying hair, sending a shock of it falling across his face, and gave Le Cric a pained, disappointed look. Pained and disappointed, but still affable and reasonable, as if all this were a silly misunderstanding to be sorted out between them as between two gentlemen. Anyone who did not know the man would certainly have presumed him innocent, with his broad, open face, his childishly snubbed nose, his candid eyes and disarming air of simplicity and manly directness.

Le Cric, however, knew his man well. He knew that Wolfie was not innocent and that he would never seek to 'sort out a silly misunderstanding' or broker a deal because, devoted as he was to his own singular code of honour, Wolfie did not consider him, Le Cric, to be a gentleman. He would be looking for a way to escape and, if this proved impossible, he would submit to his fate peacefully and with dignity. For the time being.

"Fair enough," he finally replied, rocking back on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his smock, "It's just that these rules are in place for a reason, don't you think? There's a precedent to be followed in these situations to protect everyone – you as well as me."

The implied threat, lightly and jovially as it was presented, was not lost on Le Cric and he could spot a wildness gathering in the cornered man's eyes, the look of cunning, feral surmise which had helped Wolfie to earn his sobriquet. Le Cric caught a shiver of tension run through Wolfie's body which indicated that he was preparing for both fight and flight. One of the inspectors who had accompanied him saw it too and within a few seconds they had both drawn their pistols, which they had brought concealed in their greatcoat pockets, and levelled them at Wolfie.

Instantly the big man relaxed, and smiled again with a sort of gallant doggedness in defeat tinged with embarrassment. He held out his hands in front of him, "Fair cop Guv'nor and all that! You have me. You can cuff me if you like – I'll come along quietly and not be any trouble to anyone." He looked around the handful of patrons who had not managed to clear out of the tapis-franc before Le Cric's raid had got underway. "I call all here to witness that I made no attempt to resist arrest!"

He then turned his gimlet gaze on Le Cric, grey eyes sparkling under his heavy brows. _"You were hoping to provoke me to violence and then to shoot me dead, were you not? What a shabby trick!"_ It was unnecessary for Wolfie to say what both men knew to be true – Wolfie was a thorn in the side of Sûreté and the Prefecture in general and they would be pleased to dispose of him in any way.

Still, it _was_ a shabby trick to play, with that Le Cric agreed, although he had been happy enough to try it. He dropped Wolfie's gaze and decided that he would not cuff him, a decision taken more to protect his own honour than his prisoner's. Instead he laid his hand upon Wolfie's left forearm and squeezed hard, until the man gave a slight grimace of pain. This gesture also needed no translation _"I am stronger than you – in fact, am stronger than any man in this room. If you try anything funny I will fuck you up!"_

Wolfie simply grinned at him again, and then laughed, revealing all his teeth and his gums also, "Yes! Yes! This is much better! Far more fitting that we should comport ourselves like gentlemen that brawl like Auvergnats!"

"Come along now, Wolfie – we've wasted enough time here."

"My dear Le Cric – or I might be better to say 'My Dear Monsieur Valjean' – as we're putting this on an official footing it might be better for you to use my real name – "

"What?"

"Which is Louis Andoche Javert. It comforts me to know that at least one of us is observing the social conventions of this situation.

Le Cric sighed, exasperated, "Javert, why is it that you must always, always have the last word?"


End file.
